Pessum phasmatis
by G-Guardian
Summary: Things often take a turn for worse before they get better; in Kirkwall though, they mostly only get worse.


A/N: A series of dragon age II one-shots written in chronological order. Set in the three years interlude between Acts two and three.

* * *

The first few days after her mother's _demise_ pass in a hazy shade of crimson that forever stains her mind. She locks herself in her chambers and tries to out-stare the imposing walls. As the seconds drag and hours rush, intertwining themselves in an unfathomable jumble of thoughts, whispers, roars, burying their slick fingers into the deepest darkest corners of her soul until she is almost entirely mad with honey coated voices _that_ _she shouldn't be able to hear_ save for the parts that are rendered frozen from the severity of the shock.

And when the walls close in around her in a suffocating grasp and her peripheral world shrinks into a smear of red that threatens to swallow her whole, she breaks out of her house, unarmored and unarmed save for the small silver shine of a dagger that catches the softest glimmer of moonlight at her hip. Stumbling over her own feet in a feeble attempt to outrun the red (always red) stains that trail after her, before her; she hunts the streets of Kirkwall like a vengeful wraith till the crack of the dawn.

It's on the third night that her hunt comes to fruition, an unfortunate soul whose greed or idiocy has proven too strong to sway for even the combined efforts of both Varric and Aveline. She lunges to the fight with a ferocity she hasn't known in years. With a battle cry that is so feral, so inhuman it almost tears out her own throat. And it's all over in a few gasps of breath and a quiet thud as his body, hits the ground in a tangle of short chubby limbs; and all she sees is that abomination turned mother sprawled on the ground, its life fading from her eyes, Its choked gurgles coming out of her lips _"… I lov…._" And then her legs can support her no longer, as the dagger falls from her weakened grasp.

And it's an eternity before she can will the voices out and gain back the control of the shaking limbs. The dwarf is out cold as she drags him all the way to the Darktown, pounds on the door of a haggard, bleary eyed Anders, and demands him to heal him.

"Magic won't do much on him." He says and pretends not notice her trembling fingers as he hands her a moist rag to wipe out the blood from her face and hands. She sinks gracelessly against the cold wall of his clinic, one leg drawn against her chest, and rests her forehead above bended knee. Anders's shadow hovers aimlessly around her like a ghost of a caress and then he's gone with one last glance to his freshly bandaged patient to answer yet another pounding hand that shatters the fickle serenity of the already long night. His last words are uttered in such a soft tone she nearly misses them in the clamor that accompanies the arrival of fresh wave of the b battered bleeding refugees: "the wounds will fester before they attempt to heal."

The words bounce back from the hallowed corners of her mind as she forces herself up to give him a hand; Hounding her steps as she carries herself with a resolute air of detachment through the rest of the night. they nestle themselves deeply in the dark halls of her soul and -poisoned fangs bared-; proceed to outshout the hordes of demons dwelling there whilst outside Anders's shoulders sag under the weight of the blood that floods his hands and silence perches like vulture on the window stand with an expecting breath; Watching with keen eyes as yet another life (lives) is (are) lost like a sacrificial meat to the altar of a cruel god. and she almost comes undone right there -insides twisting and bile risen up in throat- and everything inside her just wants out, _out,_ so out she slips Where the light of the day cuts like razor sharp blades and the morning breeze stings like sea water against the angry red gashes on her soul. The words hunt her as she maneuvers her way in the dimly lit alleys of dark town like an ill fated prophecy. And she thinks, no, _knows_ with a grim clarity that it will be ages (if ever) until the tissue hardens in to white glossy knitted seams and the wounds become covered in scars.

But fester…, fester they will.


End file.
